


keelhauled

by kingblake



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, And a doctor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellamy Blake is a History & Mythology Nerd, Bellamy is a cabin boy, Clarke Griffin is a pirate captain, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Privateering, Sea Monsters, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: He's been captured.“On your knees, you dirty swab.” Comes a rough voice from above him. As Captain Bellamy’s knees slam into the deck below him, he winces, teeth clattering against one another. A hand finds the top of his head and shoves it down, and he growls under his breath.The blindfold over Bellamy’s eyes grates against his skin, scrubbing his cheekbones raw.“Where's the fun in that?”





	keelhauled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosciutto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/gifts), [notwanheda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwanheda/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo ho ho, binches.

He's been captured.

“On your knees, you dirty swab.” Comes a rough voice from above him. As Captain Bellamy’s knees slam into the deck below him, he winces, teeth clattering against one another. A hand finds the top of his head and shoves it down, and he growls under his breath.

The blindfold over Bellamy’s eyes grates against his skin, scrubbing his cheekbones raw. 

“Where's the fun in that?” Bellamy hedges.

The hand shoves him forwards again, and this time his head connects with the deck, rattling his skull. Bellamy groans and sits up, resisting the urge to rub his face. He can practically feel the bruise forming on his cheekbone, but his hands are bound and his captor isn't in a particularly cheery mood. 

The captor kicks the center of Bellamy’s back and laughs. “There's no room for a sense of humor on this boat, boy. You're the property of Captain Griffin, now.”

Bellamy tips his head back, confused. “The Commander of Death? Fat chance.” 

“It's true.” The voice is quieter, almost reverent. Bellamy snorts. 

“I'll believe it when I see it. Griffin operates off the coast of Cuba. My boys and I have been dogging the southern tip of Africa for the past three weeks.” 

The hand shoves his head down again, and he can feel wide fingers curling into claws amidst his nest of black curls. “Believe it, then.”

A second hand yanks off his blindfold, and the stinging sunlight pierces Bellamy’s eyes, sensitive after being covered for so long. He squints, turning his head, and notices that his crew is knelt around him, bound and blindfolded in the same manner as he. 

Surrounding his own crew are the looming forms of a foreign group, jostling and jeering at Bellamy and his compatriots, who happen to look just as beat up and bruised as he feels.

His first mate Miller is lying unconscious on the deck, a puddle of drool haloing his shaven head. Bellamy almost laughs. Typical. 

After his eyes adjust, he risks a quick glance around him. The boat is rocking beneath him, which means they're on the water. He's bound fairly tightly, and they're on the top deck, looking out over the ocean. The captain’s cabin is just beneath his feet, likely locked up tight. 

He tips his head back again and grins up at his captor. The man is big, bigger than Bellamy, with a long, scar-bitten face and stringy brown hair. The captor growls and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Bellamy is debating his chances of escape when the crewmembers he doesn't recognize grow still and fall silent, following the telltale thumps of boots against wooden planks. 

He watches a shadow rise behind him, followed by the jingle of jewelry and the soft whisper of fabric past skin. Bellamy frowns at the shadow of Captain Griffin, eyebrows furrowed. 

“You're a woman?” He asks, eyes following the curves of the shadow’s pronounced hips. 

Griffin steps around him, and silhouetted by the sun, she settles her hands on her waist and grins. Her features are shrouded by shadow, but her smile is blaring and sharp as a knife. 

“Did you expect anything less?” Her accent is strong, a distinctly European lilt that Bellamy almost finds endearing. 

“Nobody knows who you are, Captain.”

“Yeah?” 

“Didn't expect the Commander of Death to be a woman.”

She leans forward, jewelry tinkling. He can smell a faint perfume on the breeze, like flowers and sea salt. 

“Is a woman not capable of becoming a scourge of the seven seas?” 

Bellamy considers this. He tips his head like he's concentrating, bites his lip, then nods. “I don't see why not.” 

“Hm?” 

“If you can make yourself known to any self-respecting pirate, then you're probably worth your title. Man or not.”

Griffin takes a step into the sunlight, and he finds himself strangely taken aback. Her hair is long, a shade of honey gold and wavy like a mermaid’s. A shock of red is burned through the ends of her golden locks, glinting in the sunlight like a fish’s scales. Her mouth is set fiercely, her eyes like sapphire stones fringed with lashes dark as onyx. 

Bellamy frowns, mostly at himself. It's a shame women turn him into such a poet. On any other occasion, he trips over his words and stutters like a seagull. 

She smiles at him, ice dripping past her upturned lips. “I earned this title with blood and death, cabin boy. I expect to be treated as such.”

But Bellamy isn't focusing on her subtle threat. “Cabin boy?” He asks incredulously.

She reaches forwards, exposing her arm. Her coat sleeves are cut to her elbows, leaving room for the gold bracelets and chains that drip from her wrists. The metal of her rings glint as they dig into his cheeks, her fingers curling tightly around his jaw. 

“You forget the hierarchy, boy. I captured you. You're not a captain anymore. And your crew no longer belongs to you.”

Down the line of captives, the young sailor Murphy spits and growls. “Bullshit!”

There's a thud as one of Griffin’s men kicks Murphy in the back, sending him sprawling. 

Bellamy doesn't feel sorry for Murphy as he tilts his head, eyeing the blonde captain. “My name is Bellamy,” he tell her sharply. “Bellamy Blake.” 

She squints at him, then motions for her crew. As a single unit, her crew bends and hoists up Bellamy’s own, hauling everyone roughly to their feet. As they're dragged, one by one belowdecks, Bellamy keeps his eye on the captain. 

She looks almost  _ bored, _ like a cat who's just feasted on one too many mice. “If you're expecting me to tell you my name, you're fresh out of luck.” Her eyes glint in the midday sun, mischievous. “It's Captain to you, and nothing more.”

Bellamy winces as the massive crewmember with the stringy hair yanks him up by the shoulders. The ropes binding his wrists are chafing, and it's all he can do to keep from crying out in pain. Instead he bites his lip, distracting himself in the best way he knows how. 

“Is that what I should call you in bed, too?”

And there's a swift registration of unfiltered regret that crosses through Bellamy’s mind before he feels the flat of her palm, rings and cuffs and all, burn across his cheek. The slap is strong and disturbingly painful, and Bellamy chuckles - deliriously, of course, but a soft, exasperated laugh all the same.

“Roan,” she says, calmly addressing the man holding Bellamy as if she hadn't just slapped the ex-captain silly. “See to it that he's put on barnacle duty. If his hands don't bleed, he's not working hard enough.”

Roan nods and pulls Bellamy back, making a point to jostle his bound, bleeding wrists. Bellamy stumbles on his own feet, and before he knows it, the rancid stench of excrement and mold is filling his nostrils as he's shuttled belowdecks. 

Roan unsheathes a glittering silver dagger from a flap of sun baked leather at his hip. Wincing, Bellamy prepares for the worst, only to let out a soft sigh of relief when the ropes at his wrists fall away, tumbling to the rocking floor of the arguably massive vessel. 

Bellamy eyes the brown skin of his forearms, frowning at the places that have been rubbed raw. They'll probably scar, but he isn't quite worried about it. His whole body is scarred.

He isn't left much time for revelry, though, because Roan shoves a strange-looking pick and hammer into his hands, followed shortly by a heap of old rope. “You heard the captain,” Roan says. “Barnacle duty.” Roan shakes out his arms, rolling his wide shoulders. “You had your own crew. I trust you'll know exactly what barnacle duty is.”

Bellamy grins, hopefully to Roan’s dismay. “Of course. I love barnacle duty.”

“I can't decide if you're joking or not.” A statement.

Bellamy stretches his arms out in front of him. “Well, it looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together, you and me. Maybe you'll get to know me well enough that you'll be able to tell the difference.”

Roan tenses, and Bellamy prepares for another slap. 

“Get to work, swab. I won't tell you again.”

And then the telltale clink of bootstraps and belt buckles fades as Roan disappears upstairs. Bellamy is left alone in the dark, and he takes the time to look around and assess his surroundings. 

The lower cabins are dark. Unlike most vessels, the bottom decks are separated into private rooms and sectioned off by importance. The first mate’s cabin is the one Roan disappears into, and the following cabins are occupied by the rest of Griffin’s crew.

There's a horrible stench in the cabins, but that's expected. It's the bottom of a boat, after all. It doesn't get much fresh air. Bellamy grips the pick and the rope, gritting his teeth. If he doesn't work, he'll be whipped. He's heard the stories of the fearsome Captian Griffin before. 

There's only ever been one man to leave her crew, a man named Lincoln. His body is marked with scars and tattoos and he talks of whipping posts and rules and hierarchy. Compared to other captains, Griffin actually seems kinder. Her crew is doggedly loyal, her ship sleek and fast. Lincoln once spoke of the Captain before her, a young woman called Lexa. 

Lexa had been beheaded by the British queen on charges of treason to the crown and overall piracy. It was Lexa who had been harsh, Lexa who had whipped and shouted and abused. But Lincoln had jumped ship just as Griffin had become captain, and he had no way to tell whether or not Griffin had carried on Lexa’s brutal legacy.

Bellamy isn't about to take any chances.

Spinning the pick in his hands, he wanders back to the upper deck, finds the northernmost tip of the ship, and begins to lash his rope to a thick wooden bar, bolted firmly in place. Giving his knot a good tug, he tests out the sturdiness, before tying the opposite end of the rope to his waist and securing it between his legs.

He jumps around a bit, testing it. He hears a snort from a pirate in the masts, but he just tips his head back and grins.

And then, taking a breath, he steps up to the edge of the boat, holds tightly to his pick, and jumps.

The fall is glorious. 

The boat is enormous, almost too big to be considered a privateer’s vessel. It looks like an old British craft, likely stolen from the Queen’s navy. 

Wind whistles past Bellamy’s ears as he falls, and then the rope snaps taut and jerks him back upwards. He takes a few moments to regain the feeling between his legs, a few tears pricking in his eyes.

Bellamy takes a deep breath.

He twists his body towards the boat, dangling in midair, then eyes his workload. There are barnacles clustered just about everywhere, little lumps of seaborne parasites. Nearly impossible to get rid of, damnably ugly, and stronger than a riptide. 

Bellamy leans forwards, brushes his scarred knuckles over a patch of barnacles, silently apologizes, then begins to hack away. 

The pick is heavy, and soon his arms are aching with the effort it takes to hold himself up and chip away at the sturdy barnacles at the same time. 

He's panting after thirty minutes, and after an hour, Griffin’s wishes are fulfilled. Blisters had formed and popped on his palms, sending little rivulets of blood dripping down his forearms. A small cluster of crewmen Bellamy doesn't recognize have formed around the deck above him.

They jeer him on, shouting and spitting, and soon he's not only dealing with bloody fingers and dirty barnacles and aching muscles but dodging globs of saliva and foul language. 

A few more barnacles chip off before the inevitable happens — his fingers fail, biceps aching, and then the pick, heavy end and all, slips from his fingers. It turns end over end until it lands with a muted splash a few feet below him. Sea water sprays into his face and he shakes his head, forcing himself to stay focused. 

The pick sinks unceremoniously and the pirates above him cheer. He looks up, squinting, and frowns. After a moment, that familiar blonde head peeks over the side of the boat.

Bellamy lets go of the rope with one bloody hand and waves. The captain’s hair whips behind her in the wind, tamed only by a black bandanna she has lashed across her forehead. Even from his position he can hear the metal jewelry tinkling at the end of her arms, the click of her many rings against one another as she braces her hands against the side of the boat. 

“Tired, Blake?” She calls over the wind, and Bellamy does his best to shrug. His shoulders burn, though, so instead of looking casual his face is graced with a rather unattractive wince, mouth twisted and nose scrunched. 

She laughs above him. A wave crashes against the hull, sending another spray of salt splashing over the expanse of his back. He grips the rope, grinding his teeth. “Not one bit.” He shouts back at her, and she frowns. 

Bellamy almost pumps his fist in a victory ritual. He doesn't. 

And then the captain’s mouth splits into a wry smile and she turns towards her crew, sweeping her arms out in a wide gesture. The crew immediately begins to retreat from the side of the boat, likely going back to their stations. Bellamy watches a few of them scramble back up ropes and rigging to find the crow's nest and the main sails. 

Now the captain is back, this time by herself. 

“If you're not tired, then you can get yourself back up here without any help.”

Bellamy’s hope fizzles out like a candle in a rainstorm. But he's nothing if not competitive, so he grips the rope tighter and grins at her, teeth and all. 

Without a word, he begins to climb. Every one of his muscles scream at him, forearms and shoulders and back and rope-burned fingers. Bracing his feet on the side of the boat, he walks himself up, muscles straining, wind whipping his hair into his face. 

He's only halfway back up when a wall of water sweeps over the side of the boat and his hands slip, and it takes everything he has not to fall back to the bottom, where he’ll more than likely meet his own watery grave. 

He bites his tongue and continues to climb. By the time his hands find the mouth of the boat, the railing with which he’ll hoist himself up, his knuckles and wrists and palms are bleeding. With one last mighty push, he practically throws himself over the side of the boat, landing in an unceremonious puddle at the captain’s boots.

Scrambling to his feet, he works at the ropes around his waist until they fall into a heap at his own boots. Then he looks up, a dopey smile on his face, and holds his hands out towards the captain. “Happy?”

She settles her own hands on her hips, eyebrow cocked. There's a stud pierced through it, a little red ruby that glitters when she turns her head. The captain takes a few steps forwards, the top of her head only a hair’s breadth away from his chin. 

“I told you I wanted you to work until your hands bled. It clearly didn't take you long.”

Bellamy shrugs. “What can I say? It was barnacle duty.”

“Scrub the deck.”

Bellamy pauses. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I just spent an hour and a half hanging off the side of this boat, and you're telling me to scrub the deck?”

“Yes.”

Bellamy wants to shout, to punch something. He can tell that the captain is taking violent pleasure in tormenting him, so he lifts his chin. 

“It'll be fun.”

“Fun to watch, yes.”

He glances down at her. “Watch?”

“I’m going to make sure you get the job done. Even if it takes you all night.”

Her hands fall away from her hips, her jewelry making that same little tinkling noise. She takes a step backwards. Propped on a mast next to her is a ragged mop and a bucket of soapy water. She kicks the mop towards Bellamy and it rolls towards him.

Bending, he gingerly lifts it and examines it. It’s nearly falling apart, and the bottom is made up of torn up rags and tunics tied into multiple knots and strips. 

“You want me to clean the boat with  _ this?” _

“Absolutely. If you want to talk to me like I'm an object, I’m going to treat you in turn.”  She plunks herself down on top of a barrel, swinging her feet in the air like a child. 

Bellamy frowns. “Like an object? I never —”

He doesn't have to finish his statement, though, because one moment she's perched on her barrel and the next he's bent halfway over the boat railing, knees and legs splayed at awkward angles as her forearm pins him at his throat. 

“Don't tell me you don't remember what you said to me.”

Bellamy tries to look nonchalant despite the fact that it's growing hard to breathe. “Is this about what you slapped me over?”

She yanks her arm away from his throat, but keeps him firmly in place with a ringed hand planted firmly against the center of his chest. 

“I worked for eight years to earn my place on this crew after my father dragged me into piracy. Half of the crew at the time wanted to throw me into a  _ whore house. _ ” She punctuates her statement with a hard shove to his chest, spitting the last few words as if they leave a sour taste in her mouth. 

“I was  _ ten _ , Blake. I'm twenty, now, and that's because I busted my sorry ass to get elected by the crew after Lexa died.”

Bellamy can see a flicker of sadness pass through her eyes, but it's gone just as quickly as it came. “Women aren't well off in this business.” She moves her hand away from his chest and steps back, taking a breath. 

Bellamy stands, knees aching. There's not one part of him that doesn't hurt, and he'd give anything for a good night's sleep. 

Griffin crosses her arms over her chest. “When I tell you I earned this place with blood, I wasn't kidding. But I don't have to be violent for my crew to respect me, not like Lexa did.” She unhooks her arms and sweeps them out beside her. Her posture is strong, but her eyes are withering. “Because any one of them knows I could easily kick their ass if they tried to cross me.”

Bellamy props himself up on the broom, resting his elbow against the end of the splintering wood. “What are you saying?”

“I’m telling you to respect me. I may be a woman, but I’m ten times the man you'll ever be.”

Bellamy tilts his head at her, considering this, then feels an involuntary grin creep across his face. 

“That’s awe-inspiring. I wish  _ I _ was a woman so I could use that line.”

The captain narrows her eyes. “You're hopeless, Blake. Start scrubbing.”

And then she plants herself on her barrel, leans against the mast, and silently watches as crystal blue waters darken and glitter as the sun goes down and the moon, big and white, rises like a bad omen over the horizon line.

Over the open ocean, the stars always seem brighter. They wheel past and whirl through the sky like streaks of fire and turn the black, calm water to a sheet of onyx that glitters like countless diamonds.

Before he begins mopping again, Bellamy takes a moment to admire the view. He leans against the broom, nursing his beaten hands and his aching shoulders, for a moment listening to the gentle waves crash against the boat and the creaks and groans offered by the towering masts and fluttering sails. 

He sucks in a breath. He’s always loved the tang of saltwater in his nose, the ocean wind in his hair. His sister had once mocked the way he’d been drawn to the ocean like flies to a pig, but he’d never minded. The ocean had always calmed him, been a constant staple in his short life. 

He’d grown up on the ocean, and the moment he’d been old enough, he’d hired himself off to a pirate captain. He’d been a cabin boy for the better part of his life until he finally worked up the nerve to try for the captain’s position. He’d staged a mutiny against the captain who had proved to be a bit of a tyrant, and he’d crafted his crew out of misfits and rebels and teenagers. The kind of people who identified with the ocean, wild and unforgiving and absolutely  _ unstoppable _ .

Bellamy sighs against his fist and turns away from the sparkling water, dunking    end of the mop into the bucket of soapy water. The water splashes against the dark oak of the deck and he spends the next hour silently mopping, scrubbing away at the wood the way he’d done under his first captain. 

It’s no surprise that he loses track of time, humming little songs to himself to distract from the searing pain lancing through his palms and fingers like lightning. He’d already done a number on them picking away at barnacles, and now the blisters were bleeding on the handle of the broom,  steady trickles dripping down his forearms and into his sleeves. He’s lost in his own thoughts when a hand clamps on his shoulder and he jumps like a frightened cat.

Turning his head, he’s mildly relieved to see that it’s only the captain. Bellamy isn’t quite sure how long he’s been mopping, because she’s managed to change out of her day clothes and into a simple pair of brown trousers and a white tunic to match. Her golden hair is piled atop her head in a precarious knot, but the jewels lining her ears glint as she tilts her head, a confused smile on her face. 

“I scared you?” She asks.

“No.” He tells her indignantly. 

He squares his shoulders, despite the low ache spreading across his back. He needs a good night’s sleep. Bellamy’s just wondering if he still has enough influence with Nate to convince him to give the ex-captain a much needed massage, (he doubts it) -- but then her hand squeezes his shoulder again and he winces. 

“You’ve done enough,” she says, her voice lighter than it had been earlier. Her cheeks are flushed, even in the low light of the moon, and he wonders if she’s feeling okay. He’s known her for less than a day, and yet he finds himself guessing that she’s not a typically blush-y woman. 

He fights the instinctual urge to put the back of his hand to her forehead to check for fever and instead forces a smile, hastily propping the broom back in its spot against the mast. The captain releases his arm and takes a step back, reclaiming her spot on top of the barrels. She hoists a small case into her lap, then pats the barrel next to her. Bellamy isn’t about to earn himself another workload, so he pulls the ends of his sleeves over the drying blood and seats himself next to her, brows furrowed. 

“Something wrong?” He asks. She flips open a gold latch on the case and uses a fingertip to tilt the lid back, revealing a small compartment holding bandages, antiseptics, soaps, various needles, and a spool of stitching thread. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Bellamy Blake, I am not a tyrant. Not like the captains before me.” She gently takes his bloody hands and pulls them into her lap, effectively turning him to completely face her. She sets up the little box next to her on a barrel as she tucks a fallen strand of gold hair behind her ear. 

Bellamy smiles a little. “Is that why you worked me until my hands bled?”

She looks up at him, the ruby glinting in her cocked eyebrow. “No. I needed to make an example of you. If I’m to stay captain, I can’t have a man disrespecting me. Much  _ less _ a captain from a rival crew.” She smiles like she’s won something, and it’s startling. Bellamy is already used to that crease between her eyebrows, the grim set of a mouth that hadn’t yet known peace.

“I’ll give you the day off tomorrow. Rest.” She takes his right hand between her own and pops open a little vial of foul smelling liquid. He gags and tilts his head back, looking away from his own palms as she dips a rag into the bottle and promptly coats his popped blisters. A few swipes of her rags sends his skin burning, and he sucks in air, hissing through his teeth. 

“ _ Christ _ , Griffin. What  _ is  _ that?”

She is silent for a moment as she settles his right hand on her knee and readies his left. It’s not until she’s doused both hands in the ointment that she looks up at him and speaks. “Vinegar,” she says. “Undistilled. Mixed with a few crushed flowers, some mint and thyme. My mother’s own recipe.” She corks the bottle and tucks it back into her kit. 

“You should tell her to find a way to keep it from setting my hands on fire.”

Fighting to keep his hands still despite the burning, he watches as she takes a damp rag and drags it over his arms, cleaning off the dried blood and grime and barnacle scrap. When she’s done, she looks back up at him. “My mother’s the best doctor west of Russia. If she says this works, it works.” She lifts an accusatory finger at him, and he responds with a nonchalant shrug. 

After a long moment of uncomfortable staring, she breaks her gaze and rummages around once more in her kit and produces another smaller jar, stockier in size and sealed with a screw-on cap. She opens the lid and scoops her fingers inside, producing a suspicious looking green paste.

Bellamy doesn’t have a chance to protest, though, because she’s already smeared it across his blistered hands, sending a new wave of lightning roiling up his arms. He yelps and jumps back, but her hands hold firmly to his wrists. The captain clicks her tongue at him. 

“Not yet,” she says, and Bellamy reluctantly sits back down. He stares down at his lap as she digs through her little case again, this time producing long strips of white bandage. She holds his right wrist as she secures the beginning of the first bandage with her thumb. 

As she begins to wrap it around his hands, she looks up at him. “Where are you from?” She asks. It’s not conversational, more like intrusive. 

“Australia,” he says thickly. The captain blinks like a toad, mouth open. 

“The prison island?”

“That's the one.”

She loops the bandage between each of his fingers, separating each appendage at the first knuckle. Once she's secured the thick bandaging around his open palm and split knuckles, she pins it at his wrist and moves on to his left hand. Her fingers are excruciatingly delicate, despite her visible calluses and raised scars.

“That explains a lot, actually.” She shoots him a strange look. The ruby glints in her eyebrow. “A sea-dog born and raised in the most dangerous continent in the world.” 

Bellamy grins. “You think I'm dangerous?” 

“I didn't say that.”

“But you implied it.”

He flexes the fingers on his free hand, testing mobility. If she expects him to sit around tomorrow while the rest of his crew works, she's out of her mind. She grips his wrist a little tighter, but says nothing else as she finishes bandaging his left hand. 

When the captain looks back up at him, she looks frightening. The moon has cast dark shadows over the hollows of her cheekbones and the full black lengths of her eyelashes. She looks like a skeleton, a vengeful woman raised from the dead.

“Why do they call you the commander of death if you don't really hurt anyone?” He asks. It's a genuine question, and settling his wrapped hands on his knees, he leans forward.

She frowns at him. “I never said I didn't hurt anyone, Blake. I do what I have to in order to earn this title and keep respect around this ship.” She's about to pack up her things when a little flash of gold catches Bellamy’s eye.

Embossed on the inner lid of the case are two letters in elegant script: C.G. 

Bellamy lifts his eyebrows. “Are those your initials?” He asks. Judging by the way her shoulders tense, he's guessed right. 

“C. Griffin. That's your name? What does the C. stand for?”

The captain stands up, and Bellamy rises with her. He stops her from walking away with a hand on her shoulder. “You really don't tell anyone your name?”

She looks over her shoulder at him, face flushed pink. Her hair shines in the moonlight, and for the briefest moment Bellamy is distracted by it before she speaks. 

“Only if they guess it. And then, to keep them from sharing it, I cut out their tongue.”

Bellamy considers this. 

“Challenge accepted. What names start with C?”

She starts to walk away, little kit tucked safely under her arm. She tosses a small laugh over her shoulder as she offers him a hint. 

“Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! anyone who knows me knows that I HATE doing research in order to write but I wanted to write this so badly I spent a few hours reading up on pirate history and all that business. anyway!!! i hope you enjoyed reading and stay tuned for the next chapter!


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